The Theif of Rage
by ArlkatThePillowfighter
Summary: You are Foxx Killesk... At least you think you are. You live on a small secluded island, and your dreams are starting to tell you otherwise. There is no escape from the odd man in your dreams... Or your draconic tendencies... Rated only T because I'm not planning on adding actual ship scenes to this.


Your name is Foxx Killesk. Like it or not, you are trapped on an island and short of getting really pissed there's not much you can do about it. It's not horrible, you have internet and things and the island is full of beasts ripe for the slaughter. Plus, though you are alone, you know your family is somewhere out there searching for you. At least you hope they are.

Your appearance is hardly one to scoff at- short blond hair naturally waving into a swirl in the front, blazing crimson eyes, pale skin sheathing hard musculature (when you are stuck on an island you have a lot of time to work out) and though you are tall and what some might consider 'lanky', you weigh in at a steady 140 lbs.

But over time your curse started to take its toll, sharpening your teeth into fangs and twisting your once-handsome visage into a fearsome snarl. Your left arm was completely taken over, sharp claws long and dirty red scales reaching just below your elbow on a good day. Your horns on average reached out about six and a half inches, raven cylinders ending in wickedly sharp points.

The worst (or best) part was your wings. They only sprouted when you got really mad, but you had to admit they were badass. Huge leathery wings sprouting from your clavicles, almost as big as your body. Red spines, black webs and gleamingly flawless.

You take that back. The worst part was the pain.

With the horns it's almost not noticeable. Just an uncomfortable sensation of your head getting heavier. Your arm hurt pretty bad, stray scales digging into your skin as they took over. Your wings had only come out once, a shredding, ripping sensation spreading up and down your entire back consuming all thoughts and sending you into a violent rage that cost you a good chunk of your castle...

But enough about that.

Your favorite thing to do by far is woodworking. It's funny - you hack down tree after tree after tree but the forest never seems to end. Never mind. That is probably the most irritating thing in your life right now. Besides the relentless crashing of the waves upon the distant shores all around. And the crushing loneliness...

You're doing it again. Stop.

You love woodworking. Many of the things around your home are created by you yourself, be they carved, whittled, or built. They all have stories behind them. The only one you can't place is the one that was already there... A small, about three feet by three feet by almost six feet, intricately detailed dragon statue. It was made out of some sort of brushed red wood, with glistening dark claws and startling blue eyes. It never ceased to amaze you. You always loved anything related to fantasy or fiction. You used any time not spent woodworking in your study, reading. Everything was fascinating to you, even at the age of... Was it twenty? Twenty-two? You keep forgetting your birthday. You don't even know the exact year. You hate that.

Stop. Stop thinking like that.

You should get back to the story at hand.

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You wake in your plush-lined bed, your arm aching. Last night you'd had a nightmare. Something about your past... A single word flits across your mind and you snatch it before it can dart between your fingers and become lost.

'Strider.'

It makes no sense to you... But you hang on to it anyways. It might be useful.

You groan, lifting your aching torso off the no-longer-comfortable sweaty bed sheets. You trap a ribbon of the stuff between your fingers. Fuck. That was very unhelpful. As you stand up, your Derpy Hooves plush falls out of your lap and onto the bed. You smirk and reposition her so that she is sitting up. God do you love that show.

You had no idea why.

Your lower jaw aches more than anything else as you go to brush your teeth. You pick up your toothbrush and look up- and freeze. That was not you in the mirror. This creature's eyes were icy blue, covered in a slight magical aura. The it's horns were a good nine inches long, fangs protruding almost two from its long, horribly twisted maw. You stumble backwards, the sick sour tang of bile rising in your throat as you fight the urge to retch.

No. NO. THIS IS NOT YOU.

You blink twice, covering your mouth (you can FEEL the scales) with a hand.

Foxx. Stop.

You slowly regain your composure. You are fine. You are normal. You hesitantly peek into the mirror again... Greeted by frightened rubies glinting over ivory. Thank god.

You stutter through your morning, jarred by the mishap. You seem to be getting worse every day. You can't control it as often and sometimes you swear you can feel the wings shifting under your skin. It hurts. But you live.


End file.
